EVELYN'S REVENGE.
Look deeper still. If thou canst feel
Within thy inmost soul,
That thou hast kept a portion back
While I have stalked a whole.
Let no false pity spare the blow,
But in true mercy tell me so.
Is there within thy heart a need
That mine can not fulfill?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake, or still?
Speak now--lest at some future day
My whole life wither and decay.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
Evelyn Selby stood at the window, one afternoon about three weeks
after Mr. Huntingdon's death, looking out on the snowy gardens of the
square, where two rosy-faced lads were pelting each other with
snow-balls.
She was watching them, seemingly absorbed in their merry play; but
every now and then her eyes glanced wistfully toward the entrance of
the square with the sober expectancy of one who has waited long, and
is patient; but weary.
Erle had once owned to Fay, in a fit of enthusiasm, that Evelyn Selby
was as good as she was beautiful; and it was true. Placed side by side
with Fern Trafford, and deprived of all extraneous ornament of dress
and fashion; most people would have owned that the young patrician
bore the palm. Fern's sweet face would have suffered eclipse beside
her rival's radiant bloom and graceful carriage; and yet a little of
the bloom had been dimmed of late, and the brown eyes had lost their
brightness.
As a well-known figure crossed the square, she turned from the window
with a sigh of relief; "at last," she murmured, as she sat down and
made a pretense of busying herself with some fancy work; but it lay
unheeded on her lap as Erle entered and sat down beside her.
"I am afraid I am very late this afternoon, Eva," he said, taking her
hand. "Mrs. Trafford wanted to speak to me, and so I went up to her
room; we had so much business to settle. She has given me a great deal
of trouble, poor woman; but I think I shall have my way at last."
"You mean about the money?"
"Yes; I think she will be induced to let me set aside a yearly sum for
her maintenance. She says it is only for her children's sake if she
accept it; but I fear the truth is that she feels her strength has
gone, and that she can not work for them any longer."
"And she will not take the half?"
"No; not even a quarter; though I tell her that so much wealth will be
a heavy burden to me. Eight hundred a year--that is all she will
accept, and it is to be settled on her children. Eight hundred; it is
a mere pittance."
"Yes; but she and her daughters will live very comfortably on that;
think how poor they have been; indeed, dear, I think you may be
satisfied that you have done the right thing; and after all, your
uncle wished you to have the money."
"I do not care about it," with a stifled sigh. "We shall be awfully
rich, Eva; but I suppose women like that sort of thing. I shall be
able to buy you that diamond pendant now that you so admired."
"No, no; I do not want it; you give me too many presents. Tell me,
Erle, does Miss Trafford come to see her mother, now she is ill?"
"Yes, of course; but I never see her," he answered so quickly that
Evelyn looked at him in surprise. "I have not spoken to her once since
Uncle Rolf's death--the lawyers keep me so busy; and I never go into
the sick-room unless I am specially invited."
"But poor Mrs. Trafford is better now."
"Yes; and Doctor Connor says that it will be better for her to be
anywhere than at Belgrave House. We want to persuade her to go down to
Hastings for the rest of the winter. When I see Miss Trafford, I mean
to speak to her about it; but"--interrupting himself hurriedly--"never
mind all that now; you told me in your letter that you wanted to speak
to me particularly. What is it, Eva?" looking at her very kindly.
"Yes; I have long wanted to speak to you," she returned, dropping her
eyes, and he could see that she was much agitated. "Erle, you must not
misunderstand me; I am finding no fault with you. You are always good
to me--no one could be kinder; but you are not treating me with
perfect frankness."
"What do you mean?" he asked, astonished at this, for no suspicion of
her meaning dawned upon him. "You have no fault to find with me.
Surely want of frankness is a fault?"
"Yes, but I think it is only your thought for me. You are so anxious
that everything should be made smooth and bright for me, that you do
not give me your full confidence, Erle"--pressing closer to him, and
looking up in his face with her clear, loving eyes. "Do you think that
I can love you so and not notice how changed you have been of
late--how pale and care-worn? though you have tried to hide from me
that you were unhappy."
He pulled his mustache nervously, but he could not answer her.
"How often I have watched for you," she continued, "when your poor
uncle's illness has detained you, and have seen you cross the square
with your head bent and such a sad look on your face; and yet, when we
meet, you have nothing for me but pleasant words, as though my
presence had dispelled the cloud."
"And why not, Eva? do you think your bright face would not charm away
any melancholy mood?" But she turned away as though not noticing the
little compliment. He was always making these pretty speeches to her,
but just now they jarred on her. It was truth--his whole
confidence--that she wanted; and no amount of soft words could satisfy
her.
"You are always good to me--always," she went on; "but you do not tell
me all that is in your heart. When no one is speaking to you, I often
see such a tired, harassed look on your face, and yet you will never
tell me what is troubling you, dear; when we come together--when you
make me your wife, will our life be always unclouded; am I to share
none of your cares and perplexities then?"
He was silent; how was he to answer her?
"It would not be a true marriage," she continued, in a low, vehement
tone, "if you did not think me worthy to share your thoughts. Erle,
you are not treating me well; why do you not tell me frankly what
makes you so unlike yourself. Can you look me in the face and tell me
that you are perfectly happy and satisfied?"
"I am very fond of you; what makes you talk like this, Eva?" but his
eyelids drooped uneasily, How was he to meet those candid eyes and
tell her that he was happy--surely the lie would choke him--when he
knew that he was utterly miserable.
"Erle," she said in a low voice, and her face became very pale, "you
do not look at me, and somehow your manner frightens me; you are fond
of me, you say--a few months ago you asked me to be your wife; can you
take my hand now and tell me, as I understood you to tell me then,
that I am dearer to you than any one else in the world?"
"You have no right to put such a question," he returned, angrily. "You
have no right to doubt me. I have not deserved this, Eva."
"No right!" and now her face grew paler. "I think I have the right,
Erle. You do not wish to answer the question; that is because some one
has come between us. It is true, then, that there is some one dearer
to you than I am?"
He hid his face in his hands. No, he could not lie to her. Was not
Fay's miserable exile a warning to him against marriage without
confidence. He would have spared her if he could, but her love was too
keen-eyed. He could not take her hand and perjure his soul with a lie;
he loved her, but he could not tell her that she was the dearest thing
in the world to him.
It all came out presently. He never knew how he told it, but the sad
little story of his love for Fern Trafford got itself told at last.
Poor Erle, he whose heart was so pitiful that he forbore to tread on
the insect in his path, now found himself compelled to hurt--perhaps
wound fatally--the girl who had given him her heart.
Evelyn heard him silently to the end. The small white hands were
crushed together in her lap, and her face grew white and set as she
listened; but when he had finished, and sat there looking so downcast,
so ashamed, so unlike himself, her clear, unfaltering voice made him
raise his eyes in astonishment. "I thank you for this confidence;
if--if--" and here her lips quivered, "we had been married, and you
had told me then, I think it would have broken my heart; but now--it
is better now."
"And you can forgive me, dear; you can be sorry for me? Oh, Eva! if
you will only trust me, all may yet be well. I shall be happier now
you know the truth."
"There is nothing to forgive," she answered, quickly; "it is no fault
of yours, my poor Erle, and you were always good to me--no," as he
tried to interrupt her, "we will not talk of it any more to-day; my
head aches, and of course it has upset me. I want to think over what
you have said. It seems"--and here she caught her breath--"as though I
can hardly believe it. Will you go away now, dear, and come to me
to-morrow? To-morrow we shall see how far we can trust each other."
"I must go away if you send me," he answered, humbly; and then he got
up and walked to the door. He had never felt more wretched in his
life. She had not reproached him, but all the color and life had gone
out of her face. She had spoken so mildly, so gently to him. Would she
forgive him, and would everything be as though this had never
happened? "Oh, Erle, will you not wish me good-bye?" and then for a
moment the poor girl felt as though her heart were breaking. Was she
nothing to him after all?
At her words Erle quickly retraced his steps. "Forgive me, Eva," he
said, and there were tears in his eyes; "I am not myself, you know;
all this takes it out of a man." And then he stooped over her as
though to take her in his arms.
For an instant she shrunk from him; then she lifted up her face and
kissed him. "Good-bye, Erle," she said, "good-bye, my darling. No one
will ever love you as I have loved you." And then, as he looked at her
wistfully, she released herself and quietly left the room, and no one
saw Evelyn Selby again that night.
* * * * *
The following afternoon Fern stood by the window, looking out on the
white, snowy road sparkling with wintery sunlight. Her little black
bonnet lay on the table beside her, and the carriage that had brought
her from Belgrave House had just driven away from the door. Erle had
given special orders that it was to be at Miss Trafford's service, and
every morning the handsome bays and powdered footman drew a youthful
crowd round the side door of Mrs. Watkins's. Sometimes Fern entered
the carriage alone, but very often her little sister was with her.
Fluff reveled in those drives; her quaint remarks and ejaculations
often brought a smile to Fern's sad lips.
Those visits to Belgrave House were very trying to the girl. Mrs.
Trafford used to sigh as she watched her changing color and absent
looks. A door closing in the distance, the sound of a footstep in the
corridor, made her falter and turn pale. But she need not have feared;
Erle never once crossed her path. She would hear his voice sometimes,
but they never once came face to face. Only one day Fern saw a shadow
cross the hall window as she got into the carriage, and felt with a
beating heart that Erle was watching her.
That very morning her mother had been speaking to her of Erle's
generosity; indeed the subject could not be avoided. "He wanted me to
take half his fortune," Mrs. Trafford had said, with some emotion; "he
is bitterly disappointed at the smallness of the sum I named; do you
think I am right to take anything, Fern? My darling, it is for your
sake, and because I have no more strength for work, and I feel I can
no longer endure privation for my children."
"I think you are right, mother; it would not be kind to refuse," Fern
returned, quietly; and then she tried to feel some interest in the
plans Mrs. Trafford was making for the future. They would go down to
Hastings for the rest of the winter--Fern had never seen the sea--and
then they would look out for some pretty cottage in the country where
they could keep poultry and bees, and perhaps a cow, and Fern and she
could teach in the village school, and make themselves very busy; and
the mother's pale face twitched as she drew this little picture, for
there was no responsive light in the soft gray eyes, and the frank,
beautiful mouth was silent.
"Yes, mother," she at last answered, throwing her arms round her
mother's neck; "and I will spend my whole life in taking care of you."
She was thinking over this conversation now, as she looked out at the
snow, when her attention was attracted by a private brougham, with a
coronet on the panel, that stopped before Mrs. Watkins's, and the next
moment a tall girl, very quietly dressed, entered the house.
Fern's heart beat quickly. Was it possible that it could be Miss
Selby? But before she could ask herself the question, there was a
light tap at the door, and the girl had entered, and was holding out
both her hands to Fern.
"Miss Trafford, will you forgive this intrusion? But I feel as though
we knew each other without any introduction. I am Evelyn Selby; I dare
say you have heard my name from"--with a pause--"Mr. Huntingdon."
"Oh, yes, I have heard of you," returned Fern, with a sudden blush.
This was Erle's future wife, then--this girl with the tall graceful
figure and pale high-bred face that, in spite of its unusual paleness,
looked very beautiful in Fern's eyes. Ah, no wonder he loved her!
Those clear brown eyes were very candid and true. There could be no
comparison between them--none!
She had little idea that Evelyn was saying to herself, "What a sweet
face! Erle never told me how lovely she was. Oh, my darling, how could
you help it? but you shall not be unhappy any longer!"
"Of course I knew who it was," went on Fern, gently; "you are the Miss
Selby whom Mr. Erle is to marry. It is very kind of you to come and
see me."
Oh, the bitter flush that passed over Evelyn's face; but she only
smiled faintly. "Do you know, it is you who have to do me a kindness.
It is such a lovely afternoon, and you are alone. I want you to put on
that bonnet again and have a drive with me; the park is delicious, and
we could have our talk all the same. No, you must not refuse," as Fern
colored and hesitated at this unexpected request; "do me this little
favor--it is the first I have ever asked you." And Fern yielded.
That drive seemed like a dream to Fern. The setting sun was shining
between the bare trees in the park, and giving rosy flushes to the
snow. Now and then a golden aisle seemed to open; there was a gleam of
blue ice in the distance. Miss Selby talked very quietly, chiefly of
Mr. Huntingdon's death and Mrs. Trafford's sudden failure of strength.
But as the sunset tints faded and the gray light of evening began to
veil everything, and the gas-lights twinkled, and the horses' feet
rang out on the frozen road, Evelyn leaned back wearily in her place
and relapsed into silence. Either the task she had set herself was
harder than she thought, or her courage was failing; but the brave
lips were quivering sadly in the dusk.
But as the carriage stopped, she suddenly roused herself. "Ah, are we
here?" she said, with a little shiver; "I did not think we should be
home so soon." Then turning to the perplexed Fern, she took her hand
gently. "You must have some tea with me, and then the brougham shall
take you back;" and, without listening to her frightened remonstrance,
she conducted her through a large, brilliantly lighted hall and down a
narrow corridor, while one of the servants preceded them and threw
open a door of a small room, bright with fire-light and lamp-light,
where a pretty tea-table was already set.
Fern did not hear the whispered order that Miss Selby gave to the
servant, and both question and reply were equally lost on her. "Do not
say I have any one with me," she said, as the man was about to leave
the room; and then she coaxed Fern to take off her bonnet, and poured
her out some tea, and told her that she looked pale and tired. "But
you must have a long rest; and, as Aunt Adela is out, you need not be
afraid that you will have to talk to strangers. This is my private
sanctum, and only my special friends come here."
"I ought to be going home," replied Fern, uneasily; for the thought
had suddenly occurred to her that Erle might come and find her there,
and then what would he think. As this doubt crossed her mind, she saw
Miss Selby knit her brow with a sudden expression of pain; and the
next moment those light ringing footsteps, that Fern often heard in
her dreams, sounded in the corridor.
Fern put down her cup and rose; "I must go now," she said, unsteadily.
But as she stretched out her hand for her bonnet, Erle was already in
the room, and was looking from one pale face to the other in
undisguised amazement.
"Miss Trafford!" he exclaimed, as though he could not believe his
eyes; but Evelyn quietly went up to him and laid her hand on his arm.
"Yes, I have brought her. I asked her to drive with me, and she never
guessed the reason; I could not have persuaded her to come if she had.
Dear Erle, I know your sense of honor, and that you would never free
yourself; but now I give you back this"--drawing the diamond ring from
her finger; "it is Miss Trafford's, not mine. I can not keep another
woman's property."
"Eva," he remonstrated, following her to the door, for she seemed
about to leave them; "I will not accept this sacrifice; I refuse to be
set free," but she only smiled at him.
"Go to her, Erle," she whispered, "she is worthy even of you; I would
not marry you now even if she refused you, but"--with a look of
irrepressible tenderness--"she will not refuse you;" and before he
could answer her she was gone.
And Fern, looking at them through a sudden mist, tried to follow
Evelyn, but either she stumbled or her strength forsook her. But all
at once she found herself in Erle's arms, and pressed closely to him.
"Did you hear her, my darling?" he said, as the fair head drooped on
his shoulder; "she has given us to each other--she has set me free to
love you. Oh, Fern, I tried so hard to do my duty to her; she was good
and true, and I was fond of her--I think she is the noblest woman on
God's earth--but it was you I loved, and she found out I was
miserable, and now she refuses to marry me; and--and--will you not say
one word to me, my dearest?"
How was she to speak to him when her heart was breaking with
happiness--when her tears were falling so fast that Erle had to kiss
them away. Could it be true that he was really beside her; that out of
the mist and gloom her prince had come to her; that the words she had
pined to hear from his lips were now caressing her ear.
But Evelyn went up to her room.
It is not ordained in this life that saints and martyrs should walk
the earth with a visible halo round their heads; yet, when such women
as Margaret Ferrers and Evelyn Selby go on their weary way silently
and uncomplaining, surely their guardian angel carries an unseen
nimbus with which to crown them in another world.